Affective Needs

by Rebecca Taylor

  Seconds ticked. I sat down.

  “Hello?” he finally said, as if he suddenly realized he was speaking to an idiot.

  “You’re in my Advanced Calc class,” I blurted.

  “Your ability to observe the obvious is quite stunning.”

  “Yes, much like your capacity for being a dick, I see.” It popped out. Think it, say it. My insult hung in the air between us and I wondered if I had gone from poking the bear to punching it in the face.

  Porter sat all the way up and leaned forward across the table. “What did you call me?”

  My eyes flicked to Henry, who looked about ready to get up. I imagined my mother being called on her radio, at any moment now, to come and rein Porter in again—but neither of them would be able to get to me before Porter did.

  This was a mistake.

  “Nothing,” I said, dropping my eyes to the table. “I’m sorry. I have a short temper.”

  His laughter surprised me. “You have a short temper?” When I looked up, Porter had leaned back in his chair and was nodding his head. “Right.” He closed his eyes. “I’ll remember that.”

  I watched him breathe in then out—calming himself. Then he opened his eyes. “Don’t apologize, I am a total dick. Ask anyone who knows me.”

  He was trying to be cool, but I could tell it was a show.

  “So”—he forced his tone to change—“what do you want? Help with calc?”

  “Ha!” I blurted. “Not likely.”

  He raised his eyebrows in a silent, Well, what then?

  What did I want? I wanted to know why: Why was Porter in my advanced calc class and in special education? Why was he here, suddenly, at my school halfway through our senior year? And, mostly, what had set him off last week? Why was he in such a rage that two police officers had to restrain and cuff him, but today, he was sitting alone in the cafeteria like nothing had ever happened, solving a Rubik’s Cube with one hand?

  Of course I had no idea how to ask him any of this because, really, it was none of my business.

  “You’re new here,” I said in another one of my pathetically obvious observations. “I’m Ruth.”

  Porter sighed and looked at his wrist. He was wearing a watch. Who the hell wore a watch anymore? He stood up, “Look,” he said as he glanced around the room. “It’s been real nice chatting with you.” He looked over at Henry and gave him a huge fake smile, then turned back to me with a straight face. “But I have to go.”

  I stood up next to him. He was tall, probably six feet at least, so I had to lean back a bit to look at his face. It occurred to me that it was actually fairly amazing that my mom had been able to keep Porter from bolting for as long as she did the other day. Given that she was hardly any bigger than me, and I was only five foot five, he could have totally tossed her out of his way at any time—the woman had some serious skills of persuasion.

  He stooped over and grabbed his backpack from the floor and slung it over his shoulder. “See you around.” He smirked, and his tone suggested he didn’t actually expect to see me at all.

  “Oh, well . . .” I muttered. His sudden departure rattled me. Like he was uninviting me from his space.

  He walked away from me.

  Shut down midsentence, I stood gaping and speechless. My eyes shot over to Eli, who was staring at me from under his questioning eyebrows. He waved his hand for me to come back. Honestly, I didn’t know what I was doing, so I ignored him.

  If Porter was only heading out into the yard for the rest of the lunch period, why did I have the feeling his good-bye was more substantial? Like he was actually leaving school. He was halfway to the doors when I did something I never, ever do.

  I acted on an impulse.

  “Porter!” I shouted, causing several people at a nearby table, including Bella Blake, to turn and see what all the commotion was about. Well, that’s great; what wonderfully ludicrous gossip would this scene set in motion? Their sudden attention was almost enough to make me follow Eli’s wishes and just go sit back down.

  But when Porter stopped and looked back at me, I ignored all of them and jogged to catch up with him anyway. “Wait a second,” I said. “I’ll come with you.” As I got closer, Porter narrowed his insanely blue eyes. His expression was not a happy one.

  “What are you doing?” he hissed, looking over my shoulder at all the eyes, including Henry’s, that kept trying to pretend they weren’t staring.

  Between his question and the eyes, I felt like an idiot, exposed. “What?” I said, defensiveness coming to my ego’s rescue. “Can’t a person be nice?” Which was a totally ridiculous thing for me to say because, had he been so inclined to ask, not a single person in this room would have ever used the word nice to describe me. Not even Eli.

  Porter looked at me like I was insane, then shook his head. “Come on,” he said and started toward the door again. “Now that the entire room is a witness . . .”

  I wondered what he was talking about as we pushed against the two double glass doors and exited into the yard. “Witness to what?” I asked, and couldn’t help the six or seven really horrendous thoughts that rolled through my brain with absolutely no effort at all. Roosevelt High showed the same school violence prevention safety videos every year: How to Identify a Predator followed by “Reporting” is not “Telling.” Was Porter that dangerous? Was he a shooter? Or a nut-job bomber? Was I, right now, walking into a situation with a psycho that would be broadcast all over the nine-o’clock news?

  And why? Because I had an impulse to chase this obvious head case outside? Was I going to die because I didn’t like a special education kid sitting behind me in advanced calculus?

  Outside, Porter scanned the yard then cut a sharp left down the side of the building. Did he have a bag of guns stashed over here? I looked around for an adult but didn’t see one—of course. A panic fluttered in my chest but I kept following him. What would my mother do?

  “Look, Porter, I don’t know what you’re doing, but can we talk about it for a minute?”

  Now at the corner of the building, Porter stopped and turned around. His entire expression was crinkled annoyance. “What are you talking about?”

  I swallowed. “I just . . . I want to help.” I shrugged. “If I can, you know.”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t know, Ruth.” He turned away and kept walking.

  Paralyzed, I watched as his long legs easily climbed the low hill that led to the parking lot. I thought about following him, but some invisible school boundary kept me rooted to the outer edge of the yard. Would he stop at a car? Was someone meeting him here? Should I go find my mother?

  Porter didn’t stop anywhere, and no one came to meet him. On the other side of the parking lot, on the corner of Stanley and Elm, he looked both ways, waited for a mud-encrusted Jeep to pass in front of him, then casually jogged across the road to the other side before taking a right and heading up the street.

  My heart hammered stupidly against my chest. As I turned away from his escape, my cheeks burned red hot from my own idiotic, impulsive imaginings. Porter wasn’t worried about people witnessing his shooting—he didn’t want them to see him ditching!

  I was about to have a heart attack over ditching?

  Call the police! Pull the fire alarm!

  Thank God I hadn’t said anything more stupid than I did. Eli pushed through the doors, scanned the yard then saw me.

  “Ruth!” He nodded at me then headed my way. “What was that all about?”

  “Nothing.” I shrugged. “What?”

  “Don’t give me that,” he shook his head, totally unwilling to accept my there’s nothing wrong with me it’s you act. “I can tell by the look on your face something happened. Did he hurt you?” he asked, looking around the yard, getting all defensive like his beta self was going to transform into a butch beast and go kick Porter’s ass if I happened to answer yes.

  “No, and please. Like you could hurt a flea.”

  His eyes cut to me and he pull
ed his head back like I’d insulted his male pride. “Oh, I can kick ass.”

  Lunch was almost over. I walked past him and headed for the doors, “Mm-hmm. Come on, killer, or we’ll be late for class.”

  He bounced up next to me, dancing on his toes like a boxer and weaving his head back and forth. “You don’t believe me. Well, maybe I’ll just have to kick your ass to show you.”

  “HA! I’d love to see you try. But you better not try here because it would be so embarrassing for you when I make you cry in front of all these assholes.”

  We pushed through the doors and Eli stopped bouncing. “Speaking of that.”

  I felt it before I saw it. The eyes, furtive, questioning, dying to indulge in gossip. Then, like a wave rolling through the room it happened, bodies leaned in, mouths whispered. I heard the laughter. Laughter directed at me.

  I ignored them—or tried to, anyway. I kept walking with my eyes straight ahead and made a beeline for the hallway, thanking God for every step Eli took beside me. Once we were out of eyesight I turned to him.

  “What the hell was that all about?”

  “Well, honestly, if you had seen the way you chased after Porter Creed—a known sociopath, I might add—you’d probably be pretty tempted to talk about it too.”

  “I hardly chased him down!” I turned on him.

  Eli cocked his head and raised his hands in defense. “Okay, okay. I’m just saying, there was more than a hint of desperation on your face.” He made sappy doe-eyes at me.

  “I swear to all that is holy, I am going to punch you in your face if you don’t knock it off.”

  Eli started backing up with boxing moves and head weaving, “All right, now that’s what I was talking about! We’re going to get this ass kicking on!” He smiled.

  If I didn’t love him as much as I did—I would seriously kill him. Instead, I sighed and rolled my eyes. I detested gossip of any kind, even when it wasn’t about me.

  “Oh come on,” he said giving up the act. He put his arm around me and pulled me to his side. “Nothing will come of it. Bella and Darren will get caught screwing in the girls’ locker room again and everyone will forget that Ruth Robinson actually does have a beating heart and that they could swear they saw it beat out loud for a mental case.”

  I shrugged him off me and walked away, “Get to class, Eli,” I said, and headed for my fifth-hour English Lit, more than a little mad at myself for stupid impulses and, even worse, for indulging in them.

  Who the hell cared if Porter Creed was some kind of special education genius anyway?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Apparently, I cared, because a week later, I had become practically obsessed with Porter Creed.

  “You know, I think you may have a problem,” Eli said.

  “Shhh.” I hushed him while we both sat unable to even pretend to eat the spongy macaroni and cheese that the cafeteria had the audacity to serve.

  “Why shhhhh? It’s not like he can hear us from here.”

  It was true: Porter couldn’t hear us halfway across the room and over the voices of every other senior at Roosevelt High. “I’m not worried about him hearing us, I just want you to be quiet so I can think.”

  “Right.” He nodded and dared to take a bite. “Ugh,” he spit the mess back into its styrofoam bowl. “It is totally not fair that the powers that be decided to close the campus just as we were coming into our own.”

  For years, Roosevelt had been combating an ever-increasing dropout rate—closing the campus at lunch was just the latest in their many, many desperate attempts to help the half-brain-dead plebes here to “STAY IN SCHOOL!” Basically, because twenty percent of these people were dying to fail so badly that they felt the need to hasten the process along by spending their lunch hour hanging out in each other’s basements and frying what little brains they had with uncontrolled substances, the rest of us were all made to suffer through the Monday Mac&Cheezie special.

  As he had every day since my monumental failure to make conversation with him, Porter was making his move.

  “Look,” I said, grabbing Eli’s arm. “There he goes again!” I sat back in my chair, exasperated by this blatant rule defiance. I glanced over at Henry, who yet again seemed clueless that Porter was taking off. It was unbelievable! “How does he get away with it? I mean, what, they haven’t figured out he sneaks off campus every day and doesn’t come back?”

  “How do you know he doesn’t come back?”

  I tried to change the subject. “You’re still coming over after school, right?” I asked casually.

  “You didn’t answer my question. You’re totally stalking him.”

  My face contorted into what I hoped was a believable mask of annoyed disbelief. “I am not stalking him. The mere observance of ‘hey, this person is at school,’ and then later, ‘hey, that person is no longer at school,’ does not constitute a valid stalking.”

  “Okay, fine.” Eli raised his hand in surrender. “Have you found out anything about him online yet?”

  “Nothing!” I said exasperated. “He doesn’t seem to have a profile anywhere.”

  Eli jumped sideways in his seat. “AHA! Stalker. I told you,” he gloated.

  I ignored him and rolled my eyes while he smiled, self-satisfied, and nodded at his own brilliance.

  Later, at my house, while Eli rummaged through my refrigerator, I sat cross-legged at our coffee table with my laptop and turned my attention to Caged Karen. It had taken me a while to decide what angle my paper would take. Then, last week when I was helping out again in room 233, midway between the Peppermint Forest and Gumdrop Pass, it hit me.

  “Maggie,” I said, “I’ve got it!”

  She was busy counting out the squares between her first purple square and the next, so she didn’t answer me—but I didn’t take it personally. Instead, I got up, grabbed a sticky note off the teacher’s desk, and jotted down my epiphany.

  My paper would be a comparison study. Karen was the perfect example of what happened when someone with a cognitive disability was denied the same life experiences and educational opportunities that Maggie and everyone else here in room 233 had had. Sure, Maggie wasn’t going to Harvard, but thanks to her work-study classes, she would one day be able to hold down a job.

  Maggie would one day be a contributing member of society, while Caged Karen, lacking any sort of educational opportunities for most of her life, would be living in a hospital or mental health care facility.

  It was perfect! Especially considering that I had firsthand, direct knowledge and experience with one half of my argument—Maggie.

  Now, all I needed was Karen.

  While Eli pulled out some salami and the loaf of bread from my fridge—“Do you want a sandwich?”—I moused over my email icon and hoped for good news. “Sure,” I said. “No mayo.”

  “Extra mustard . . . I know,” he said annoyed that I should dare to remind him.

  “Then make it right for once.”

  My email opened: spam, ads, Viagra . . . yes. An email from the assistant to the director of Harmony House, the care facility one hour’s drive north on I-95 where Caged Karen was now a resident. Now please, please, please let it be a yes.

  My eyes scanned the initial blah, blah, lovely greeting, thank you for inquiring, until—“YES!” I exploded from my sitting position into a victory stance.

  A loud clang erupted from the kitchen. “What the hell?” Eli said turning toward me, a huge glop of mayonnaise sliding down the front of his sweatshirt. “You scared the crap out of me,” he complained as he reached for a paper towel and wiped at the oily mess staining his favorite garment. “Shit, that’s not going to come out.”

  “Sorry,” I said reading the important part of the email one more time, just to make sure I had in fact read it right, before getting up and holding out my hand. “Give it here, I can get it out.”

  Eli lifted the hoodie over his head, exposing his ripped abs for a second before his T-shirt dropped back into place. I h
ad thought it before and I thought it again, Eli was going to make some boy very happy someday.

  “It’s not going to come out,” he whined.

  “Yes it will, stop being a baby.” I put my hand inside the sweatshirt underneath the stain and opened up the cupboard under the sink.

  “So what’s all the excitement for?” he asked as he returned to the open-faced sandwiches waiting to be finished. I noticed he had, again, put mayo on both of them.

  “I just heard back from the institution where Caged Karen lives . . .” I rooted around among the hundreds of half-empty cleaning supplies until I found what I needed. “They said I can come for an observation. They just need about a week’s notice and a letter from my dean verifying that the purpose of my visit is strictly educational.” I handed him the bottle of Goo Gone. “Here, open this for me.”

  Eli twisted the top off and handed it back. “Well, that’s good news.”

  I squeezed the toxic smelling liquid onto his beloved sweatshirt. “That is excellent news. Want to come with me?”

  He hesitated by pretending to be busy making our sandwiches. “Um . . . maybe. When are you going?”

  “Oh, come on.” I put the bottle of Goo Gone down and picked up the bottle of dish soap. “It’s only an hour away; he can totally make it.” I squeezed a giant puddle of blue soap on top of the Goo Gone and the stain and began rubbing the fabric together. “He” was my 1984 Buick Grand National GNX, aka, Vader.

  As he piled the salami on the bread, Eli’s expression was doubtful. Ever since that time I was driving him home from his church retreat and Vader’s brakes went out, Eli has had zero faith in my classic car.

  “There has been nothing, nothing since that one time.”

  “Yeah, well, I think I have my gay camp thing that day.”

  “I didn’t even decide on a day yet!”

  “Well, whatever day you’re driving anywhere that’s a two-hour round trip in that death trap, I’m busy. Here,” he said, sliding one of the sandwiches across the counter to me. “It’s done.”